Ballads of a Bohemian Part 15

At night, I fear, I fight for breath, And wake up whiter than a spook; And crawl off to a _bistro_ near, And drink until my brain is clear.

Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength To write and write; and so I spend Day after day, until at length With joy and pain I'll write The End: Then let this carcase rot; I give The world my Book--my Book will live.

For every line is tense with truth, There's hope and joy on every page; A cheer, a clarion call to Youth, A hymn, a comforter to Age: All's there that I was meant to be, My part divine, the G.o.d in me.

It's of my life the golden sum; Ah! who that reads this Book of mine, In stormy centuries to come, Will dream I rooted with the swine?

Behold! I give mankind my best: What does it matter, all the rest?

It's this that makes sublime my day; It's this that makes me struggle on.

Oh, let them mock my mortal clay, My spirit's deathless as the dawn; Oh, let them shudder as they look . . .

I'll be immortal in my Book.

And so beside the sullen Seine I fight with dogs for filthy food, Yet know that from my sin and pain Will soar serene a Something Good; Exultantly from shame and wrong A Right, a Glory and a Song.

How charming it is, this Paris of the summer skies! Each morning I leap up with joy in my heart, all eager to begin the day of work. As I eat my breakfast and smoke my pipe, I ponder over my task. Then in the golden suns.h.i.+ne that floods my little attic I pace up and down, absorbed and forgetful of the world. As I compose I speak the words aloud. There are difficulties to overcome; thoughts that will not fit their mold; rebellious rhymes. Ah! those moments of despair and defeat.

Then suddenly the mind grows lucid, imagination glows, the snarl unravels. In the end is always triumph and success. O delectable _metier_! Who would not be a rhymesmith in Paris, in Bohemia, in the heart of youth!

I have now finished my twentieth ballad. Five more and they will be done. In quiet corners of cafes, on benches of the Luxembourg, on the sunny Quays I read them over one by one. Here is my latest:

My Hour

Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing, Then lo! I reign a king of cheer.

A throne have I of padded leather, A little court of kiddies three, A wife who smiles whate'er the weather, A feast of m.u.f.fins, jam and tea.

The table cleared, a romping battle, A fairy tale, a "Children, bed,"

A kiss, a hug, a hush of prattle (G.o.d save each little drowsy head!) A cozy chat with wife a-sewing, A silver lining clouds that low'r, Then she too goes, and with her going, I come again into my Hour.

I poke the fire, I snugly settle, My pipe I prime with proper care; The water's purring in the kettle, Rum, lemon, sugar, all are there.

And now the honest grog is steaming, And now the trusty briar's aglow: Alas! in smoking, drinking, dreaming, How sadly swift the moments go!

Oh, golden hour! 'twixt love and duty, All others I to others give; But you are mine to yield to Beauty, To glean Romance, to greatly live.

For in my easy-chair reclining . . .

_I feel the sting of ocean spray; And yonder wondrously are s.h.i.+ning The Magic Isles of Far Away.

Beyond the comber's cras.h.i.+ng thunder Strange beaches flash into my ken; On jetties heaped head-high with plunder I dance and dice with sailor-men.

Strange stars swarm down to burn above me, Strange shadows haunt, strange voices greet; Strange women lure and laugh and love me, And fling their b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at my feet.

Oh, I would wish the wide world over, In ports of pa.s.sion and unrest, To drink and drain, a tarry rover With dragons tattooed on my chest, With haunted eyes that hold red glories Of foaming seas and cras.h.i.+ng sh.o.r.es, With lips that tell the strangest stories Of sunken s.h.i.+ps and gold moidores;

Till sick of storm and strife and slaughter, Some ghostly night when hides the moon, I slip into the milk-warm water And softly swim the stale lagoon.

Then through some jungle python-haunted, Or plumed mora.s.s, or woodland wild, I win my way with heart undaunted, And all the wonder of a child.

The pathless plains shall swoon around me, The forests frown, the floods appall; The mountains tiptoe to confound me, The rivers roar to speed my fall.

Wild dooms shall daunt, and dawns be gory, And Death shall sit beside my knee; Till after terror, torment, glory, I win again the sea, the sea. . . ._

Oh, anguish sweet! Oh, triumph splendid!

Oh, dreams adieu! my pipe is dead.

My gla.s.s is dry, my Hour is ended, It's time indeed I stole to bed.

How peacefully the house is sleeping!

Ah! why should I strange fortunes plan?

To guard the dear ones in my keeping-- That's task enough for any man.

So through dim seas I'll ne'er go spoiling; The red Tortugas never roam; Please G.o.d! I'll keep the pot a-boiling, And make at least a happy home.

My children's path shall gleam with roses, Their grace abound, their joy increase.

And so my Hour divinely closes With tender thoughts of praise and peace.

II

The Garden of the Luxembourg,

Late July 1914.

When on some scintillating summer morning I leap lightly up to the seclusion of my garret, I often think of those lines: "In the brave days when I was twenty-one."

True, I have no loving, kind Lisette to pin her petticoat across the pane, yet I do live in hope. Am I not in Bohemia the Magical, Bohemia of Murger, of de Musset, of Verlaine? Shades of Mimi Pinson, of Trilby, of all that immortal line of laughterful grisettes, do not tell me that the days of love and fun are forever at an end!

Yes, youth is golden, but what of age? Shall it too not testify to the rhapsody of existence? Let the years between be those of struggle, of sufferance--of disillusion if you will; but let youth and age affirm the ecstasy of being. Let us look forward all to a serene sunset, and in the still skies "a late lark singing".

This thought comes to me as, sitting on a bench near the band-stand, I see an old savant who talks to all the children. His clean-shaven face is alive with kindliness; under his tall silk hat his white hair falls to his shoulders. He wears a long black cape over a black frock-coat, very neat linen, and a flowing tie of black silk. I call him "Silvester Bonnard". As I look at him I truly think the best of life are the years between sixty and seventy.

A Song of Sixty-Five

Brave Thackeray has trolled of days when he was twenty-one, And bounded up five flights of stairs, a gallant garreteer; And yet again in mellow vein when youth was gaily run, Has dipped his nose in Gascon wine, and told of Forty Year.

But if I worthy were to sing a richer, rarer time, I'd tune my pipes before the fire and merrily I'd strive To praise that age when prose again has given way to rhyme, The Indian Summer days of life when I'll be Sixty-five;

For then my work will all be done, my voyaging be past, And I'll have earned the right to rest where folding hills are green; So in some gla.s.sy anchorage I'll make my cable fast,-- Oh, let the seas show all their teeth, I'll sit and smile serene.

The storm may bellow round the roof, I'll bide beside the fire, And many a scene of sail and trail within the flame I'll see; For I'll have worn away the spur of pa.s.sion and desire. . . .

Oh yes, when I am Sixty-five, what peace will come to me.

I'll take my breakfast in my bed, I'll rise at half-past ten, When all the world is nicely groomed and full of golden song; I'll smoke a bit and joke a bit, and read the news, and then I'll potter round my peach-trees till I hear the luncheon gong.

And after that I think I'll doze an hour, well, maybe two, And then I'll show some kindred soul how well my roses thrive; I'll do the things I never yet have found the time to do. . . .